


Breakfast

by Nixiesaurus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, fem!lock, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:08:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1294252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixiesaurus/pseuds/Nixiesaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jems is woken up by the sound of Sebaste making breakfast.  Dedicated to Sherlick, who provided the prompt!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast

Her nails were always so long. Too long, Jem would say, but Sebaste didn’t seem to care. Her wardrobe consisted of too many tiger-themed clothes, and in its own way, it was a mockery of her past. Once, she had told Jem that, ‘Dwelling on one’s past is sometimes the only way to get over it.’ At the time, it didn’t make sense… but perhaps it all came together one morning when Jem noticed the bed was cold.

“I told you,” Sebaste said from the kitchen, “I told you to watch the eggs, but what did you do? You burned them. How the fuck did you manage something like that, private?!”

It echoed. It burned through the house and hit Jem right in the face, the words aching her ears and making her head spin. Rubbing her eyes - fuck, she had forgotten to take her makeup off from the night before - the Irish woman sat up in bed. Running a hand through her hair, she pushed it back and her heels felt cold when they landed on the floor.

“Hop to it! I said to have that bacon ready on time for the General!” Bastia barked again, and this time, it made the dark-haired woman’s heart race. It pounded in her chest, and she tried to stand up from the luxurious bed as quietly as she could. A few steps and the creak of the floor froze her, but downstairs, Bastia’s yelling continued. It remained constant, scolding a private for starting the bread too soon, for adding too much salt to the eggs. How the waffles were undercooked and, “You damn, stupid bastard!” Bastia yelled, “Just for that, you’re driving the convoy at the front of the line!”

Dressing in her robe, Jem tiptoed from the bedroom, ready to see a group of people in the kitchen downstairs. Perhaps Sebaste had brought over some of her snipers to have them add a hand with the housework… but upon walking down the stairs with the footsteps of a doe, Jem froze, staring at the scene in the kitchen.

Sebaste, standing with a cigarette hanging from her mouth, flipped the pan atop the stove to turn the eggs, shuffling them about over the heat. Her scars showing on her shoulders, a baggy tanktop hung on her thin frame. Strong arms tensed when she barked out around her smoke, “There, you finally did something right, private!” and, turning, she placed the eggs on a plate, “Fuckin’ good on you, your mum must be proud, having -!”

“What the fuck is going on?” Jem interrupted, shuffling quickly into the kitchen. In the light of the early morning, her black curls bounced around her shoulders. Over her shoulder, her robe draped down, exposing the lace of her stringtop; the very same one Bastia had chewed on the night before, like some sort of delusional mutt. Grabbing the pan from Bastia’s hands, Jem slammed it down on the oven with a loud BANG.

A ‘bang’ that made Sebaste freeze. She stopped, and her chest jumped a few times. The cigarette toppled from her lips and landed on the floor silently, dropping ash around her toes. A gasp, and Sebaste immediately grabbed Jem by her shoulders, and gave a swift pull, a yank, to jerk the Irish woman’s body against her own.

“Get down!” 

Get down? Jem didn’t understand why, not when she was yanked down onto her knees on the floor, with Sebaste gasping and shaking. The trembles that took her shook her down to her very bones, and the violence in them made even the strands of her short, spiked blond hair move with their shivering. “Ssh,” Bastia whispered, as she gripped Jem tightly, clinging to her, “I’ll protect you. Fuckin’ insurgents… I’ll protect you…”

Jem raised her hands. Instinct told her to push the British woman away, to slap her across the face and tell her to wake the fuck up. How, things like PTSD, they had to be… they had to be snapped out of a person, sometimes, not just coddled, not just held. Sometimes, a person needed that, didn’t they? A cold hand and a loud voice to remind them where they were…

But when Sebaste’s tears wet the bare shoulder of the Irishwoman, and it… it softened her heart. It softened the hand that had tensed up, ready to slap the ever-loving-shit out of Bastia. Instead of slapping, clawing, screaming and biting, Jem closed her eyes, and allowed Sebaste to fold against her, shivering, shaking, and s-sobbing… 

Reaching up, Jem folded her hands against Sebaste’s shoulders, holding the shaking ex-soldier.

“Thank you for breakfast,” Jem whispered, cradling Bastia’s head against her shoulder.


End file.
